The Skull and the Nightingale. Michael Irwin
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Название: The Skull and the Nightingale
Автор: Michael Irwin
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Историческая литература
isbn: 9780007476343
isbn:
When the weather brightened I explored the estate. Hungry for fresh air and exertion I walked at a good pace, breathing deep. One fine morning I found myself running from sheer excess of energy. My furthest excursion was to the woods I had seen from the drawing-room window. In these first days of spring they offered little promise that they could ever resemble the shady groves of pastoral poetry. They were dense, leafless and dark – even menacing – in aspect, as though ready, at a signal, to advance like Birnam wood and overwhelm the cultivated land.
I was curious as to my godfather’s daily doings. It seemed that he spent much of each morning talking to attorneys, tenants or tradesmen and attending to business of various kinds. I began to infer that he was no passive landowner but an efficient and industrious overseer of an estate, a master of practices and responsibilities of which I knew nothing. Might he wish to groom me to take an active part in the conduct of these affairs? And would I be content to settle, at so early an age, into the role of a rural administrator? I hoped the question would not arise, while hoping also that it would.
When in his company I observed him closely, looking for signs that I might read. He was controlled in manner as in speech, moving unhurriedly. His clothes, impeccably neat, seemed to be an expression of his being. There was nothing of the animal about him. It was impossible to imagine him so much as sweating, still less rutting or at stool. Even in his eating and drinking he expressed connoisseurship rather than appetite. His disposition seemed to be the achievement of years of self-command.
I assumed that there was a purpose to my seemingly purposeless stay, although I could not be sure what it was. Was it to give me an opportunity to learn, indirectly, more about my godfather, or was it rather that he wished to learn more about me? What did I indeed feel about him, if anything? Grateful, in a formal sense, I certainly was, but my gratitude had no tincture of warmth. I could not feel myself to be blamably deficient in affection when Mr Gilbert himself displayed so little. There was no hint that he regarded me in any sense as the son he had not had. His detachment had evoked in me a similar coolness. He was my benefactor, and therefore to be propitiated. He was clever yet aloof and therefore an object of interest. If for some reason he should turn against me I suspected that he would sever the link between us without a qualm. I was therefore responsive to his moods, and ever on my guard. It had often been remarked of me that I had the capacity to please. At school, at Oxford and on my travels I had adapted myself to those I met and made friends readily. Mr Gilbert would hardly have carried his patronage so far had he not found something agreeable in my disposition. Such kindliness as I had elicited I hoped I could sustain.
I was further encouraged by a deeper and perhaps darker reflection. In several ways, after all, I had the advantage of the old gentleman. I was young and free-spirited, physically strong. If Mr Gilbert was quick-witted then so, I flattered myself, was I. Moreover by virtue of my youth, my education and my travels I might be open to modes of thought that he could not anticipate. If he chose to continue in his course of benevolence he would find me tractable and appreciative. If, for whatever reason, he was planning to dispose of my life in a manner at odds with my disposition we would be commencing a chess-game in which I would hope to hold my own.
We dined together every night, pretty comfortably as it seemed to me, but with no discernible progress towards greater intimacy. Our talk was easy and even lively, but Mr Gilbert said little that was personal. For my part I endeavoured to be entertaining, but was watchful for any hints of inquisition or irony and quick to deflect them with inconsequence, or with ironies of my own. Though nothing of moment passed between us I was satisfied that this time spent together would not lower my godfather’s estimation of my abilities.
An aspect of his conversation with which I found myself in instinctive harmony was his habit of moving unexpectedly from civil commonplaces to eccentric speculation. There was an instance of this kind when he asked me what impressions I had formed concerning his estate. Wishing to please I remarked that within its boundaries there seemed to be order, cultivation and contentment. If other landlords were similarly capable and benign, I asked, might we flatter ourselves that in the course of time the whole country might come to enjoy this state of harmony?
‘I think that unlikely,’ he said. ‘We strive for progress, but even our best attempts produce consequences at odds with our intention.’
‘But surely, sir,’ I urged, ‘the building of this great house could be seen as an absolute gain. Here is an outpost of civilized life. Within its walls certain standards of conduct and taste are upheld.’
I strove to speak in the grave manner of one who would maintain such standards.
My godfather, in an habitual gesture, paused, glass in hand, to consider my observation, and then savoured a sip of wine before replying.
‘Every building is under siege, this house not excepted. In providing privacy and protection for yourself you offer lodging-space for intruders. Mice have made their home beneath the floorboards. To control them we introduced cats. In summer you will see flies buzzing about the food, and moths blundering into lamps. Spiders lurk in corners. Birds nest in the chimneys. Moss takes root in the walls.’
Absorbed in these reflections he paused, sipped again, and then continued.
‘Similar effects are everywhere observable. Even a beggar’s shirt provides a tenement for fleas.’
I recalled my reflections about the servants below stairs, but thought it graceless to pursue the analogy.
‘You are a philosopher, sir.’
‘I have no such pretensions. I improvise. I make do.’
‘You may say so; but I have seen optical instruments, shelves of learned books …’
‘I have dabbled in this and that. I know a little about the flora and fauna of the county. Here my interests intersect with those of Yardley, though he is better informed than I. His concern is for the particular, for narrow observation and classification. Mine is for the general. I look for analogies and patterns. Lately I have taken an interest in meteorology and in the workings of the human body. The two subjects are surely connected, if only at the level of metaphor. The theory of the four humours has been abandoned, but I see why it came into being. We can have storms and droughts within.’
Then, with a sudden smile: ‘But we must replenish your glass.’
I soon had reason to recall his words. When I drew the curtains next morning the sun was shining so brightly that I had to close my dazzled eyes. I leaned from a casement and inhaled a sweet, fresh breeze that on the instant filled me with energy. This was surely to be accounted the first day of spring. When I glanced in the mirror I was surprised to see myself smiling broadly. I stripped off СКАЧАТЬ